


Family Don't End In Blood

by Sensue



Series: Suitcase of Memories [17]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety, BPPV, Brotherhood AU, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Incontinence, Medical, Nausea, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Season/Series 01, Sick Dean Winchester, Sickfic, Vertigo - Freeform, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28266711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sensue/pseuds/Sensue
Summary: Brotherhood AU - The relationship between Bobby Singer and John Winchester had been strained for several years now. It was known throughout the hunting community, and many interceded to keep the two men from needing to work together. It comes to violence after Dean is hurt. (Hurt!Dean, Father-figure Bobby, and caring Mac.)
Series: Suitcase of Memories [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1887088
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Family Don't End In Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Preseries, months after Sam left for Stanford, leaving Dean and John to hunt on their own. Sam is 19, Dean is 23.
> 
> Note: BPPV sucks. Don't recommend it. In Sam, Interrupted, Dean said that he had over 50 drinks in a week. Assuming he worked up to that, I guess he started drinking 20s-30s pre-series.

Rochester, NY.

"Dean!" A shout of his name came but a moment too late, as the ghost materialized and threw him across the room. His head collided with the ostentatiously ornate wall, leaving him stunned for a few seconds before the next command spurred him into rolling away.

"Clear!" John ordered, waiting for his son to get out of the way of his shot before shooting the entity with rock salt. It dissipated in a fog and remained gone.

Bobby ran inside the dilapidated manor, armed, "is it gone?"

John lowered his weapon, gruffly answering his question with a question, "You get it done?"

"I salted and burned the body. I'd say it's done." Bobby remarked matter-of-factly, smirking at Dean. "you gonna' lay there all day, boy?"

Dean took in a deep breath, then ran a hand over his head to make sure that he wasn't bleeding. Other than a bit of dust, it seemed like he came out unscathed. He got to his feet then smacked Bobby on the arm in comradery. He teased his 'uncle', "getting old there, Bobby? You used to be faster than that."

Bobby glared at him, then snarked back, "I'm still young enough to whoop your ass." He playfully wrapped his arm around Dean's neck, letting the kid escape with a laugh.

John rolled his eyes, then without another word, went to his truck to store his weapons the other two men trailing behind as they continued shooting the breeze. The truck gleamed in its newness; the scent of leather and gun oil permeating the cab. The '67 Chevy Impala that had been his family's home since the death of his wife alongside was just as beautiful as the day he'd purchased her. He gifted the car to Dean, claiming that he needed a truck to haul large equipment. Truthfully, it was given to promote his son's independence as well as maintain a sense of 'home'. He'd never admit it, but Dr. Mackland Ames was often correct in his psychological mumbo-jumbo. He regretted the fact that an inanimate object was the most stable thing in his twenty-three-year-old son's life. After Sammy left them to go to Stanford, Dean faltered. John eavesdropped on Dean and Caleb's phone conversations. He'd heard Dean confess to his friend that he didn't know what his purpose was anymore. John blamed himself; from the moment he handed Dean his baby brother, he practically programmed the kid to 'watch over' his little brother and protect him.

The way Dean's green eyes lit up in excitement and happiness carried him through the dark times. It had been too long since he saw his son happy. He felt like a failure of a father. Mac's words echoed in his mind, haunting him. He'd warned him that time he spent hunting the monster who'd killed Mary was time taken the most important moments of his boys' lives. Now, one son banished, and the other son loyal-to-a-fault. He'd married Mary at the same age Sam was now. Neither of his boys knew what true love was; their relationships short-term as they traveled town-to-town to hunt down the next lead John found. Guilt inspired the gift.

Dean opened the trunk of the Impala, the hidden weapons compartment unlatched to store the shotgun that he'd dropped in the gaudy house when the ghost attacked. Bobby came over to lay his gun in the cache. Calling out to the Knight, Bobby went over to the passenger side of the sleek black car. "I'll ride with Dean."

Meeting the gruff man's eyes, they silently communicated. "Bobby and I are headed to that bar off the interstate. Don't wait up for us, Dad."

John nodded, wiping his brow with a cloth before reminding them. "Mackland is arriving tomorrow. We'll be at the Holiday Inn. Make sure you're back by morning so we can head out."

"We still heading to Ithica?" Dean questioned.

"Yeah," John replied, "there are reports of a werewolf pack nesting in that area. Mac will be back-up. He offered his place if you want to crash for a few days after."

That caught Bobby's attention, "that offer for all of us?" His eyebrow arched in question.

It made John laugh, "Yeah, you're included. Though, he did issue a warning against doing anything 'immoral, illicit, or illegal' in his place. The threats were inspired; I'd say he's getting more creative as he ages."

Bobby smirked, taking off his ball cap and scratching at his hair. "Hot tub, here we come! And for the record, his criteria leaves lots to the imagination. Plenty of gray areas to exploit."

Dean laughed, "Oh man. I can't wait to hear the lecture you'll get if you f-things up for him again." With a wave to his father, he got in the driver's side and started the engine.

Bobby slipped into the bench seat beside him, still bullshitting. "That man asks for it. He's got such a stick up his ass."

Raising his arms in surrender, Dean defended his best friend's father. "Mac is like a – I don't know – a den mother or something. He's serious, but you know he's always got our backs." His hand flew to the clutch as he shifted gears into drive and started them towards the highway.

"Yeah, yeah. You sound like Caleb now. Can't say a negative word against his daddy."

Dean smiled at the thought of his best friend. "You know what Caleb says. 'No one is allowed to complain about Mac but me.' It's the family code, Bobby."

Quietly Bobby commented, trying to keep the hurt from his tone, "Only family can complain about family, huh?"

Dean was perspective, immediately realizing his mistake. "Bobby – I didn't mean. Hell, you and Caleb practically raised us. You're the one that taught me how to fish."

"Just don't forget me when you meet the future Mrs. Winchester. I expect to be one of the groomsmen." Bobby teased.

Scowling in disgust at the thought, Dean shook his head. "Dude. I'm never getting married! I'm a love 'um and leave 'um type. Equal opportunity."

Laughing, Bobby knew it was a common belief among young men his age. Bobby knew better. The kid was bound to meet someone and get swept off his feet. The girl would have him in a ball and chain so fast his head would spin.

-xxxxxxx-

John grumbled under his breath when he heard Dean come into the hotel room after closing time. He and Bobby must have stayed until the bar kicked them out.

His son went into the small bathroom washed up then threw himself in the bed furthest away from the door fully clothed. John always took the double bed closest to the door as a habit. While he hated the fact that Sam was away, the increased space in the hotel room was a bonus. As the boys grew to work odd jobs, they'd save up to rent another room adjacent to their father for privacy. John hated the idea of wasting money on an additional room but did grow to enjoy a king-size bed away from his squabbling teenagers. Now, with Sam away, he would pay for a double room for the two of them. Dean liked the fact that he could pocket his half to spend at the nearest bar and kept the complaints to a minimum. It was unspoken that if either found a lady to spend the night with, they'd either fork over the cash for another room or go to the girl's place. Most of the time, they ended up at the girl's place.

Bobby took the adjoining room to himself, requiring his privacy even in the seedy motel. John scrubbed his mind at the thought of Bobby picking up a chick.

John fell back to sleep after Dean uttered a 'goo'nigh' dad' muffled into his pillow.

-xxxxxxx-

John got up at the crack of dawn, as his usual routine. He washed up, then changed into a pair of shorts and a tank top to go on his daily run. He may be a retired marine, but the training he'd received was ingrained. In boot camp, he'd gotten used to running at least three miles every morning followed by forty-four push-ups.

When he got back from Vietnam, he'd gotten out of the habit. He'd gotten soft in the belly. Too much beer and red meat. Mary would poke him and giggle 'hoo hoo' like the Pillsbury doughboy. John smiled at the memory.

After she died, running and pushing his body to exhaustion was the only way he could get any sleep. It didn't take long to build muscle. The strength he gained, he put towards the hunt. Many in the Brotherhood considered him a force to be reckoned with.

Today, as he ran, he thought of his baby. Sammy deserved better. His son was in fucking Stanford; he was Ivy League and John only thought of what could have been if Mary were still alive. At first, he felt sorrow. Then after a mile, it twisted into anger fueled by his pain. It was that anger that pushed him further, focused him on the ultimate goal. John Winchester would do anything, sacrifice anything, to kill that monster.

He wiped the sweat from his eyes as he sprinted towards the motel, the rage still coursing through his veins. He slowed down as he approached the walking path, allowing a 'cool down'. John dug out the key that he'd shoved into this pocket, trying to be quiet in his entrance as to not wake his son. Dean often joked that he needed his four hours of sleep.

He slipped inside, grabbed a change of clothing, and then jumped into the shower. The military taught him how to bathe in under two minutes, yet he needed a few extra minutes this morning. It had been decades since he lost his wife, but John couldn't help but let the water covertly wash away his tears.

Staring at his reflection, the frown lines on his forehead and eyes were deep. His hair was graying and the shadow across his face made him look mean. Getting dressed, John went into the room area and sat at the desk with his journal opened.

Penning the details of the latest hunt took his mind off the loss he felt. He dug into his duffle for a flask, drinking deeply of the Jack Daniels whiskey he packed. Opening the backpack, John laid out his research – newspapers of the werewolf attacks as they described horrible 'animal attacks' during the full moon. More than one article mentioned the possibility of rabies and warned them to be aware of the strange behaviors of raccoons. They killed a young mother, only a couple of years older than Mary had been. The photo of the two small boys and the widower they left behind. It hit home… the similarities.

Taping the papers to the wall, he circled the locations of the attack as he pulled out a map to forecast the probable location of the nest. He would kill those sons of bitches and keep them from harming another family. There was a knock at the door that woke Dean.

John peered through the peephole, then let in Bobby.

Bobby came inside while Dean grumbled in bed, throwing an arm over his head.

"Might as well wake up, kid. It's mornin'" Bobby remarked, unusually perky after a night of drinking.

"Arg. Fine." Dean protested as he kicked off the blankets and sat up.

John rolled his eyes after Dean groaned loudly, clutching his head, scolding his son. "You know better than to get drunk before a hunt!"

"I didn't!" Dean argued, standing to make his way to the bathroom. His thigh hit the side of the nightstand hard making him yelp and clutch at where a bruise was bound to appear. "Fuck." Rubbing it he continued towards the bathroom, then bounced off the doorframe as he came within reach. He went inside and closed the door behind him.

Bobby came to Dean's defense, grasping John by the shoulder in attention. "As far as I know, the kid only had a couple of beers at the bar. We spent most of the night sharking a bunch of drunks playing pool." Bobby was in John's personal space, and the scent of whiskey on the man was unmistakable. Lowering his tone, Bobby whispered harshly, "Don't be a fuckin' hypocrite, John. I can smell the drink on you. Did you down the entire flask?"

The rage was quick to reappear. The Knight's temper was legendary. John shoved Bobby away from him and into the wall, then yelled out to his son. "Dean, get out here!"

John opened the bathroom door; it hadn't been locked, then spun Dean away from the sink where he'd been resting his head.

His son yelped, face going gray-white. Reaching out instinctually, Dean clutched his father's shirt on the way to the ground. In the next second, Bobby was in the small bathroom, watching as Dean let go of his father to crawl to the toilet. They watched as the kid was violently sick; his entire body heaving as he vomited.

"We don't have time for this shit, Dean!" John went over to the toilet, flushing it, then wrapped his arms around Dean's waist to lift him to his feet when Dean struggled to stand. "Are you still drunk?"

Dean's face was sweaty, his eyes blinking rapidly. "I only had a beer and a half. I didn't even finish the second bottle."

Pulling away from his father's tight grip, Dean walked out of the bathroom past the two older men. They both watched as he bounced off each surface: the walls, the furniture, Dean even knocked down the telephone stand. The kid was unsteady. If a cop pulled him over, he'd be unable to pass the drunk driving tests.

John burned hot; he grabbed his son by the shoulders before Dean was able to sit down on the bed, shaking him. "You knew that I needed you on this hunt! What the hell is wrong with you? Tonight is the only night we'll be able to find those animals. Do you want it on your head that another mother gets slaughtered? Or maybe this time a little kid? Was going to that bar that important?"

Dean's face blanched, he was trying to pull away from the hands holding him; At that moment, Bobby didn't think the kid even knew where the hell he was. Bobby reached between them, trying to separate John from his son. It only caused John to tighten his grip.

"Dad, I didn't." Dean cried. The denials were ignored.

John pushed until he'd slammed Dean against the wall pinning him there as the ghost had done hours before. "Dammit John, let him go!" Bobby shouted as he fought to pull the stronger man.

The kid's eyes glazed over, his weight becoming heavy as he began to tremble. Dean's shirt became soaked in sweat.

"You've disappointed me." John shook him one more time before letting Dean drop to his knees.

As soon as the kid hit the ugly stained carpet, he started hurling again. This time, the expulsion was foam-like bile, stinking up the room. Bobby was rendered silent when he caught the scent of urine. Wet stains formed around Dean's jeans as the heaving continued without end.

The father pulled away disgustedly, then seemed to regroup in order to lift his son and physically throw him into the bathroom. Dean's hip hit the sink and Bobby's quick action was the only thing that kept him from bashing his skull against the tub. A fall like that would have been dangerous. Bobby helped Dean sit on the toilet, then went out into the sleeping area while John continued to rage. "This is not going to happen again, Dean. I won't allow it. Clean yourself up and then mop up that stink! Get your ass up."

Bobby walked back into the small room, shotgun in hand. He pumped the weapon, letting the sound echo across the tiles.

John had Dean by the shirt; he had been yelling into his face. At the sound of the cocking of a gun, he stilled.

"Let him go or I'll fill you with buckshot!" Bobby made a promise that he'd do anything to stop a father who would abuse his family. As a child, Bobby watched his father hurt his mother. He watched his mother cry as he bruised and broke her skin. Bobby stopped him with a bullet and buried him in the family's salvage yard. Ed Singer was known as a man who'd run off and abandoned his family. It was a secret that he would take to his grave. Not even Karen knew.

"Get out of here!" Bobby shouted at the top of his lungs, weapon pointed at the Knight. "Now!" John wasn't stupid, backing out towards the front door.

The door into the room was suddenly kicked open startling the two men in the stand-off. The silver glint of a weapon was spotted, making Bobby shift to point his gun at the intruder.

A blink later, Bobby recognized the familiar face of Dr. Mackland Ames brandishing a handgun and lowered the barrel.

The Scholar looked around the room before also holstering his gun. The doctor looked grim, speaking sarcastically. "Are we in danger or were you just happy to see me?"

When no one responded, Mac continued. "I could hear you shouting from the parking lot. If it weren't for the fact that the citizens of this humble area are used to gang violence, I'm sure the police have been called. Now, what is going on here?"

The sounds of sickness interrupted the discussion. It immediately caught the Doctor's attention as he walked past the other hunters to head towards the bathroom.

Bobby glared at John. "I'm serious, John. Get out! If I see your face again, I'll pull the trigger."

John grabbed his keys, his flask, his backpack, and the newspaper. "Fine. I'll leave. The deaths that'll happen tonight – they'll be on the both of you." He walked out of the motel room and towards his truck.

Bobby shouted a warning. "Don't be more of an idjit than you already are – don't go on that hunt alone!" With that, he slammed the door shut and then locked it for good measure. Leaning against the door, the brusque hunter lay his head against the wood panel to catch his breath.

Once he felt calmer, he lay the shotgun on the desk, then turned to the bathroom.

Mac was at Dean's side as he continued to vomit, a hand against his back and avoiding the wet puddle near him. "How long has this been happening?"

Bobby answered gruffly for the kid since he seemed unable to. "Since he got outta bed." He leaned against the doorframe, feeling like a voyeur, unable to do anything to help.

"Would you mind grabbing my bags, Bobby? I dropped them at the curb in my rush. And bring in my medical bag, please."

Bobby huffed, "Here's hoping no one snatched them up around here. This ain't exactly a 'good neighborhood'." He grouched yet did as he was asked. It was the only thing he could do anyway. He hated to see the kid so sick.

He went outside, and much to his surprise, two bags were still on the ground. The doc always carried that black bag no matter where he went claiming it was for emergencies. Jokingly, Mac started listing out all of the times that he needed it to treat one of the members of the Brotherhood, reminding them all that they seemed to attract beings that caused them bodily harm.

Throwing the duffle bag on the nearest bed, Bobby carried the medical bag into the bathroom where he could still hear the sounds of purging. Mac had helped pull of Dean's sweat-soaked shirt then worked to get his pants off, leaving the kid in his wet boxers.

"Dean, try and breathe through your nose." Mac gently commanded. He eased up from his kneeling position to dampen a clean washcloth in the sink, then lay the cool cloth against Dean's neck.

It took several more minutes, but the puking stopped. Dean's head was resting on the edge of the dirty toilet seat, shaking badly. Mac winced but didn't comment on their choice of motel.

While Dean fought to keep from throwing up, Mac opened his bag and took out his stethoscope. He warmed the bell in his hand, then pressed it against the heaving back. He listened for a few seconds, then wrapped his arm around Dean's chest to press it against his heart to pull him away from his hunched-over posture.

"Bit fast, but, it's understandable considering," Mac remarked. "Do you want to get up? Wash up in the shower?"

"Yeah," Dean breathed as he used the toilet to help him to stand. Mac watched as the red in his cheeks faded. Dean reached out one hand to grasp the wall while the other faltered until he hit the sink nearby. Once he was within arms-length, Dean used the sink to reorient himself. The young man was blinking rapidly, unable to focus his eyes.

It concerned the neurosurgeon greatly. The twenty-three-year-old had a sudden onset of nausea, vomiting, sweating, gait instability, loss of equilibrium/coordination, and incontinence. "Dean, did you take or do you believe you were slipped anything? Drugs? Alcohol?"

The kid shook his head 'no'.

One second Dean was shaking his head, the next he had both arms wrapped around the pedestal sink as he started another bout of retching.

Mac ran his hands through Dean's hair, both in comfort and in checking his skull for signs of a wound. "Did you hit your head, Dean?" The question was asked sharply as the possibility of a serious head injury was at top of his diagnostic check. "Just answer yes or no – you don't need to move."

Bobby helped answer that question. "Doc, I think he hit his head during the hunt. John also pushed him against the wall a few minutes ago…"

"I don't feel any bumps or cuts." Mac commented, "But that doesn't mean that there isn't internal damage. I think we need to go to the hospital – get a CAT scan and MRI."

Dean finally stopped throwing up, slowly lifting his head from the porcelain. "I didn't hit my head that badly. It was like knocking your head against a cabinet. Hurts for a second, but it's not like I got a concussion. And Dad, I felt it in my back more than my head. I'm just really dizzy. I'm just gonna sleep it off, Mac."

He pulled away from the concerned man, using the wall and the furniture to get him back to the bed reaching out as if he were walking blind. Dean pulled out a new pair of boxers and a t-shirt from his duffle bag that was resting on a baggage cart. Sitting on the side of the bed to keep from feeling like he was going to fall, he slipped off the wet pair and threw them into the corner of the room. Dean used the t-shirt as a towel to wipe himself down and then slipped on the new pair. Once he was dressed, he threw himself across the mattress the way that he usually did. This time as he lay down, he ended up throwing up on his pillow. Dean's hands gripped the sheets as if he were trying to keep himself from falling off the bed.

Both men were silently assessing him.

Bobby used a wet bath towel to clean up the mess on the carpet and picked up the clothing with his thumb and forefinger – barely touching them. Mac slipped the now vomit-covered pillow out from under Dean's head, handing it to Bobby. Once the worst of the mess and stink was absorbed into the towels, Bobby threw everything into the bathtub and shut the door of the bathroom to keep it from permeating. It wasn't perfect; there was still a faint scent of sick, but it was tolerable.

Mac sat on the edge of the bed, brow creased in what Bobby considered to be 'problem-solving mode'. "I think I know what this is. Can you describe the dizziness you're experiencing?"

"Feels like I'm on a boat that's about to capsize. Like I'm going to fall and pass out."

"Even when you're lying prone on the bed?"

"Yeah – the room's spinning. It goes dark – for a few seconds I can't see."

"What you're describing is called vertigo."

Dean huffed in a laugh, "Like that Alfred Hitchcock movie?"

Mac pulled out an otoscope from his bag, then went over to what had been John's beds to take the four pillows. "I need you to sit up for a minute. I'll help you." Mac slipped his hand under Dean's skull to keep his head in a straight position, "just sit up slowly and try not to move your head. Bobby," Mac called out instructions, "I need the pillows to form a wedge shape. Dean has to be propped up at a 45° angle."

Bobby arranged the pillows as requested, while the Doc attached a tip to the magnifying lens so that he could look in Dean's ears assumingly to make sure the kid's brains didn't leak out.

"I'm going to take a look in your ears. Do you hear anything odd? Does it feel full or as if they are filled with fluid?"

Dean was going to nod but stopped himself. "Yeah, like a buzzing noise."

"Is it on one side or both?" Mac asked as he tugged Dean's right earlobe to insert the tip in the canal. "That side." Mac went over to the other side of the bed to examine the left ear. Both looked normal in anatomy.

"So, the right side is bothering you," Mac muttered mostly to himself. He was deep in thought, then seemed to have formed a conclusion.

Bobby asked impatiently, "do you know what the hell's wrong with the kid? 'cause I'm telling you – he's not drunk."

"Of course, Dean's not drunk. Why would you think that?" Mac said incredulously.

"Dad…" Dean explained, "He thought I was drunk and got mad."

"I suppose that is what caused the argument that I walked in on," Mac reasoned.

"Stupid idjit was being a hypocrite. He got physical with Dean for thinking he was drunk while being actually drunk. Asshole stunk of whiskey. He was throwing Dean around the room; shit he said, I'd never say that to my kid." Bobby was still angry and it showed.

"I'm fine, Bobby. You didn't need to pull a gun on him. I've had worse." Dean explained, defending his father's actions the way it was ingrained in him. The boy had been covering for his Daddy his entire life.

Mac and Bobby shared a troubled glance. Mac felt guilty and Bobby was enraged.

"We'll speak about John after we get you settled, Dean," Mac regrouped. He pressed his hand against Dean's chest, his other hand holding his skull as he helped lay him against the pillows as if he was an infant.

"I believe I know what this is – but I need to confirm it. There are a few root causes of vertigo and I suspect that you have the most common: positional. There's a quick test I can run that will confirm if I'm on the right track. It's non-invasive. I just need to look into your eyes."

Mac stood up over the bed, then held Dean's head with both hands. "First thing, put your head back. Then I want you to pick one focal point to gaze at. I'm going to move your head from one side to another, but you're going to keep your eyes open and stare at that central point."

Dean looked surprised, "that's it?"

"Yes – if you feel dizzy I want you to tell me," Mac said kindly. "There are tiny crystal particles in your ear that can get stuck in a canal. It can be caused by even a small blow to the head. The ear sends signals to your brain that you are in motion when you may not be or vice versa. That's what causes the feeling of vertigo. If the crystals are out of place, your eyes will – involuntarily twitch. It's called nystagmus. Are you ready?"

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Let's do it."

With that, Mac moved his head to the left and asked him to stare directly ahead. "Feel dizzy?"

"No."

His head was turned to the right and asked to stare at the desk. It didn't take long for Dean's eyes to start blinking rapidly and for him to grasp the sheets again. "Fuck," Dean swore, eyes slipping closed as the feeling of rocking and falling overtook him.

"Dean, keep your eyes open, please." With his thumb, Mac gently lifted the young man's eyelids so he could examine them. It was as he'd expected; the tell-tale jiggle was evident. "What are you feeling right now?"

Dean answered to the best of his ability, nauseous from the dizziness. "The room is spinning. Things are going black; I can't focus my eyes. I feel like I'm going going to fall. My hands are tingling. Trying not to throw up again."

Bobby was watching, now paying attention to Dean's eyes. It was like the Doc was explaining. The kid's eyeballs were twitching in their sockets. It was freaky as if the kid was possessed.

Mac held Dean's head steady. "Let me know when the dizziness stops."

It took about three minutes, but Dean whispered that it had stopped. Mac helped guide him back against the pillows, then pulled out IV tubing, saline, and a couple of vials of medication from his bag. He gestured to Dean's arm, then started setting up the kit. "Meclizine for the dizziness, Reglan for nausea, and valium."

"We can try a repositioning if you're feeling up to it," Mac mentioned as he went about inserting the needle and attaching the IV. Bobby looked away, grateful for the fact Mac had arrived. He was sure that he would have just called an ambulance if the man hadn't shown up when he did.

"What's that involve?" Dean asked.

"It's a series of head movements designed to shift the crystals back into place. It's called the Epley maneuver. If you want to try, it will require you to be in a neck brace for at least three days to prevent you from moving your head. Additionally, you're going to have to sleep at a 45° incline for a few days, but to be on the safe side, I'd recommend a week. It might work right away to stop the dizziness, but most likely it will take a week to resolve. In some cases, we might have to repeat the Epley for an additional week or two."

The medications were injected into the port. "These should help keep nausea at bay."

"The repositioning thing – can we try? I mean, at this point anything is better than doing nothing." Dean asked the doctor.

"We can," Mac agreed, "however I do need a collar for you. Bobby would you be willing to go to the nearest pharmacy to pick one up? If you ask the pharmacist, just ask them for a 'soft cervical collar'."

"Soft cervical collar? Okay. I'll pick one up."

"Should be around $10." Mac stood up to pull out money from his wallet, but Bobby waved him off.

"Shouldn't be long," Bobby explained as he walked out the door. "Do you need anything else since I'm heading out?"

Dean asked for junk food while Mac requested soup, juice, crackers, and other lighter fares.

"Thank you, Bobby," Mac called out, with Dean echoing the sentiment.

Waving them off, Bobby snatched up the keys to the impala. "I'm borrowing your Baby, Dean."

"You better not scratch her!" Dean yelled back as his 'uncle' left them for a supply run.

Mac smiled at their antics. "This will take about fifteen minutes, so we can get started if you'd like. By the time Bobby returns, we should be done."

Dean cracked an eye open, "Let's do this. I'm willing to try anything to stop feeling like this."

"First thing, I need you to sit up towards the middle of the bed. Feet on the floor." Mac talked him through the procedure while Dean slowly sat up, trying not to move his head in the process or pull at the IV in his arm. Mac took a few post-it notes that were on the desk and drew an X in the center. He stuck it to the wall, then repeated it three places around the room. "So, I want you to stare at that X for a couple of minutes."

"Are you sure this is going to work, Mac? This is weird." Dean gripped awkwardly. He knew his best friend's father was a genius, but he couldn't quite understand how staring at a wall would stop the room from spinning or what the hell these crystals were.

Mac was comforting, "you're not the first person to say that. And it does usually work. Now, I want you to scoot over then lie down so that your shoulders are on the edge of the bed. Your head should fall back, but not all the way. I'll sit behind you and hold your head to keep you from straining your neck. Keep your eyes open and keep your eyes focused on one of the stains on the ceiling. You'll do that for another two minutes. You need to tell me if the vertigo is triggered. We won't move to the next step until it settles."

Dean followed the directions, allowing the doctor to support his head as he stared at the ceiling. It was uncomfortable to lie with his head dangling off the bed and having Mac hold the back of his skull to keep it from falling back. "I'm okay. I'm not dizzy."

"Then we'll just wait a couple of minutes." Once the time was up, Mac asked him to turn his head to the right and stare at the X he stuck on the wall.

It didn't take much movement for the room to start spinning again. All he did was turn his head and he was back on the capsizing boat. "Mac, dizzy," Dean panted.

"I know... Please keep your eyes open and on the X if you can. Let me know when it stops, then we'll move on to the other side." The doctor delivered the instructions while keeping time. The latest bout of vertigo was lasting longer than the previous – several minutes passed. Dean's face was white, the freckles across his cheeks the only color. "Dean, how's the dizziness?"

"It's like a wave. It gets better and then comes back," he answered, breathing shallow to keep from gagging.

"Okay, we'll wait another couple of minutes." Mac studied his patient's eyes, waiting until the jerkiness stopped to move into a new position.

"Okay," Dean indicated, "I'm not dizzy anymore."

With a quick movement, he turned Dean's head left and asked him to stare at the other x he'd placed across the room.

The hotel room opened, and Bobby entered from his trip to the pharmacy. He frowned in curiosity at the scene he walked in on. "Um, I got the thing you asked for. What's going on? Is this the position thing you were yapping about, Doc?"

Dean squirmed, wanting to get up by was held in place by the doctor in embarrassment. "We have to finish. Almost done, just one more position for two minutes."

Bobby rolled his eyes, "Kid, just listen to Mac. If this works, he'd have saved you from a hospital bed." Singer opened the plastic bag and took off the tag that was on the white cushion collar. It was a piece of foam wrapped in white cloth and a piece of Velcro to loop around someone's neck. There was an extra white cloth with Velcro on it that he wasn't sure what it was for.

Mac said, "Okay, now you're going to sit up and stare at the x straight-on for two minutes. That's it." Mac guided Dean to the correct sitting up position, then let go of him to take the collar from Bobby. Bobby watched as the doctor squished the middle of the foam and wrapped the extra cloth around it to make an indentation. He went back to Dean and showed him the collar. "Dean, this needs to stay on at least 3 days."

With that, he stepped closer and wrapped the collar around Dean's neck, making sure it wasn't too tight. The indentation had created a dip where his chin rested.

Bobby had to laugh at Dean's expression. The kid looked like a puppy that got its nuts taken off. "It could be worse, kid. Could've been a cone."

The collar prevented the knee-jerk turn of his head to glare at the laughter. "Good one – dug deep for it." Dean caught Mac's eyes, "well, Mac? Now what?"

Mac sat down across from the bed to wait out the last minute. "Now, we see about making arrangements to take you to my place a couple of days earlier than originally planned. I'll drive us in your car. Dean, you're getting at least a week off – relax, no big movements: no bending, leaning, sleep sitting up… and in a few days, you can remove the collar."

The young man seemed anxious. "Are you sure this is going to work? After the head-turning, I'm cured? 'Cause Mac, I can't work like this."

Mac gave him a small smile, "A repositioning like the Epley has an 80% chance of resolving the vertigo along with the medications. But, as mentioned, there is a chance that we might have to repeat it…so, it might take up to a month to settle." The doctor took in a deep breath, not liking to give false hope. "As for a cure, I'm not going to sugar coat it, 50% of people who have had a first episode end up having another within 5 years."

"You're saying it'll come back?" Dean asked. "What do I do if it comes back when I'm on a hunt?"

"It might… nothing is guaranteed. There are medicines and I can teach you how to do a repositioning on your own once this attack has settled. Dr. Carol Foster suffers from BPPV and invented her own self-positioning technique. It can be managed. I'll see about getting you a few Scopolamine patches in case of an emergency to carry in your wallet. It's a transdermal patch that you wear behind your ear. Lots of people wear them on cruises to keep from getting motion sickness. Most people start experiencing dizziness as soon as they get out of bed, so I hope that if you feel that way – you arrange for another hunter to take your place. But, we're getting ahead of ourselves – you could be among the lucky half."

Mac turned towards Bobby, "Are you planning on catching up with John in Ithaca?"

"No," Bobby spoke dryly, "I'll call Jim and have him assign someone else to cover the asshole's back. I'm liable to put a bullet in it."

"Bobby…" Mackland looked like he was getting ready to start on one of his legendary lectures, so Bobby walked away to start packing the kid's stuff.

The doctor shifted gears, "You're welcome to join us. My home is open to you."

Bobby paused, looking grateful, "Thanks. I'll drive behind the two of you in my truck. If you need to stop – for any reason, just throw on the flashers."

Mac rubbed his mustache. "We'll need some supplies for the trip. Bobby, would you mind asking the front desk if they have any extra plastic bags? As many as they can provide… Dean, for now, sit back against the pillows until the saline drip is empty." He pointed at the half-full bag hanging from the edge of the bed frame.

Bobby lifted an eyebrow in annoyance, "what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to arrange for John to have back-up tonight and give him Dean's diagnosis," Mac stated matter-of-factly, raising an eyebrow at Bobby as if he'd be happy to trade jobs. He went over to the bed to help Dean lay against the wedged pillows.

Scoffing, "Good luck with that. I'll take my time." Bobby started on his assigned task. The door closed behind him with a bit more force than necessary.

The doctor sat at Dean's side, "How are you doing now?"

Dean was still pale, eyes closed. "Still dizzy, Mac."

Mac patted the hand closest to him, "this is normal for an episode of BPPV."

Cracking open an eyelid, "what?"

Scooting over so he could meet Dean's eyes without him turning, he calmly explained. "It's an ailment that causes the vertigo that you're feeling. It's called Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo or BPPV for short. This is fairly common, Dean. When we get back to my place, I'll provide you with some reading materials on it. Are you alright if I share the diagnosis with your father? You're a man now – and have the right to keep it private if you choose."

Dean seemed to absorb what he was saying and nodded as best as he could with the neck brace. "You can tell him. Rather have him know the truth than think I got drunk and messed up his hunt." He rubbed his forehead in discomfort. The drugs were helping, but only slightly. "Mac, is there anything else we can try to make this go away faster? I still feel sick."

The doctor took his wrist to press against his pulse point. "Nausea?"

"Yeah," Dean mumbled, wishing the feeling of rocking would stop.

Mac winced in solidarity. "I'll call a pharmacy and we'll try a stronger medicine called Zofran among a few others. You'd just put it under your tongue until it dissolves." Sitting back, Mac thought hard about the message he wanted to give John. It was difficult to remain unaffected.

"Dean… about what happened with John. He hurt you…" Mac left the statement open so that Dean could fill in the blanks.

Dean swallowed, "Dad misunderstood. Don't make it a big deal, Mac."

The older man covered his mouth in frustration. He didn't want to increase Dean's stress, but it certainly was a big deal if Bobby broke away. Mac couldn't help but feel responsible. Bobby had come to him several times about John's increasing violence towards his sons, but he felt helpless to assist. He'd asked Sam if he felt safe since Dean was unwilling to paint his father in a negative light. Sam had huffed and said that it didn't matter anymore – he was out. At the time, Mac didn't understand the comment, but it wasn't long after that he was informed that Samuel had left the Brotherhood, and his family, to attend college at Stanford. It had been a long-time coming. Both he and his son were waiting for the explosion as Sam reached the legal age. Caleb knew Dean was devasted and took him out for some 'fun' that did nothing to heal the emotional wound but risked venereal diseases in their momentary distraction.

Mac nodded at Dean patting him on the shoulder in comfort, then stood up to call Jim Murphy first. He pulled out his cell phone dialing his first 'favorite' contact. "Jim?"

Dean opened his eyes to watch Mac on the phone since he could only hear the doctor's side. He felt guilty – in a strange way. There wasn't anything he could have done to prevent the knock on the head, but the fact that he was causing all these issues within the Brotherhood didn't sit right. He never wanted to be a burden.

"Can you please reassign any upcoming hunts between Bobby Singer and John Winchester? There have been interpersonal conflicts that will make safety a concern on a hunt. I don't recommend them working together unless it's resolved. John is on his way to Ithaca and needs back-up. Is there anyone who could drop what they are doing and meet him there tonight? A pack of werewolves. Thank you, Jim. Also, please take Dean Winchester off the roster until I medically clear him. He's going to stay with me for a couple of weeks."

Dean shut his eyes at that, ashamed to have let them down. He felt the hot tears prickling and fought to keep them inside. The bed dipped beside him and Mac gently squeezed his wrist in comfort. Dean pulled away from him, covering his face. There were no secrets from the psychic. He always knew when he was upset. If Caleb were here, he'd give him a beer and offer to help him pick up a girl for the evening. Mac, that man was all about the chick flick moments without escape.

"Thank you, Jim." With that, Mac hung up. He watched the pale young man in concern. Dean was always sensitive, though he hid it well under the snark and anger.

"Are you hungry, Dean?"

Dean shook his head, forgetting the collar and the request to not move his head. The color faded from his face, he covered his mouth, then looked around for anything that he could sacrifice.

Mac saw the look on his face and grabbed the closest receptacle – a wastebasket – and put it in Dean's hands. He winced as the young man spit up bile, his stomach empty. He took a moment to shoot Bobby a text to bring in a couple of bottles of ginger ale until he could get to the pharmacy.

"I know that this will be difficult for you, but the more you relax, the better it will get." Mac softly remarked, rubbing his curved back as Dean heaved. "I can find us a nicer hotel room if you aren't up for traveling."

Dean took in several deep breaths then pushed away from the basket, accepting the tissues that Mac passed to him to wipe at his lips. "It's okay – I can take a five-hour drive, Mac. I assume that was why you sent Bobby for the plastic bags, so I don't mess up my Baby?"

"It was indeed. I'll finish up my phone calls and see if I can find a pharmacy close by to pick up the prescription. I asked Bobby to bring in some ginger ale for you. Just rest for now. We'll need at least another 30 minutes for the IV bag to empty. Do you want the clothing that we put in the bathroom? I can see if I can clean them off and put them in your trunk if you do."

"Nah. Just leave 'em." Dean mumbled.

"Okay," Mac agreed, standing up to call the phone directory and ask for the closest pharmacy. He gave the pharmacist his ID and Dean's information along with the prescriptions. They told him it would be ready in an hour. Hanging up, he found John's number and dialed with trepidation.

He waited for the Knight to pick up. "Mackland, how's Dean?" The man ignored all social conventions to get direct answers.

He gave Dean a fake smile, "Hello, John. Dean is having a rough time at the moment, but he'll be alright in a couple of weeks. The blow to the head during your most recent hunt caused the crystals in his ears to displace in the canal. That displacement affects balance, vision, hearing, and coordination. His eyes, ears, and brain think they are moving even when he's not. You thought Dean was drunk – but he was experiencing vertigo. He's currently in bed with an IV in his arm."

There was a moment of quiet, then John's voice was heard through the tiny speakers of Mac's cell phone. Dean heard every other word, something about a fighter pilot and training.

"John, while that kind of training would be beneficial after this episode has resolved, right now I've put him in a cervical collar. He's struggling with nausea and vomiting. I don't want him moving his head nor leaning down and certainly not training. It'll be at least a week until we can see if the repositioning has worked, so your patience is required."

There was a long pause, and Mac forced himself not to grit his teeth. "No, I'm taking him to my place. We'll take off in about an hour. I asked Jim to find you back-up tonight. When you're done, meet up at my place like we originally planned. John, listen to me – this isn't something that you can force to get better because it doesn't meet your timeline. It might resolve in a week or it might take longer. I'm not going to sign off on it. Jim agrees."

Dean heard something about coddling and closed his eyes. This time, the tears slid past without his permission and he quickly wiped them away. "John, we'll discuss it further after the hunt. Do you want to speak with Dean? Alright."

The cell phone flipped closed and for a while, there were only the two men breathing in the room. Mac waited until Dean opened his eyes to softly tell him, "I'm sorry."

Smirking, Dean scoffed, "Apologizing for my Dad now, Mac? You didn't do or say anything that warrants it. What was he saying about training?"

Mac bit his lip then explained, "John mentioned that in the military, fighter pilots train to keep vertigo from affecting their coordination. As you can imagine, the speed, rapid turns, and inversion can often trigger episodes in those conditions. Once we get you back on your feet, I can teach you a few techniques and I imagine that John knows someone in the military that has a bit more knowledge about that specific training than I do. The training can only be done once the crystals are back in place. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, so I'm on my back until then?" Dean asked.

"Not on your back – you can get up and walk around short distances as long as you don't move your head. No bending. If you feel dizzy or like you're going to fall you need to ask for help. Dean – it should only be for a week… consider it a vacation."

Glaring at the doctor, Dean couldn't possibly see how he could spin it into a positive. "This isn't a vacation Mac, I need to get back on my feet."

Speaking calmly, Mac comforted him. "Right now, it doesn't feel like it, but you'll get better. Patience, son."

Bobby knocked on the door hesitantly, before letting himself in, a couple of cans of ginger ale in-hand as well as plastic bags filled with more plastic bags that most people collected. He walked over to the pale young man and passed him one of the drinks, placing the other on the side table next to him. "Now, what?"

"Now, we get ready to hit the road. We'll need to stop by the pharmacy on the way out of town for medications that will help Dean tolerate the drive." Mac grabbed a band-aid and a pair of gloves – swiftly pulling out the IV needle from Dean's arm while Dean drank from the cold can.

Bobby looked around the room and started grabbing the duffle bags, tucking the books and papers into open pockets. "I'll grab the bags. Dean, am I missing anything?"

Dean pressed on the band-aid, adding pressure to quickly stop the flow of blood. "No, you got everything. Thanks, Bobby." Gingerly, he slid down the bed so that his feet were touching the floor. He held the can in his left, using the right to steady himself against the side table as he slowly stood. It was tough not to look at the floor. Mac was hovering on his left side, spotting him.

As long as he didn't move his head significantly, he felt – not alright – but that the boat was on steady waters. The dizziness was still there making him feel groggy and unfocused, but at least he wasn't up-chucking or falling over. There was also a buzzing noise that was driving him insane. He inched his way to the front door, turning his body to scan the room in case they missed anything, feeling like the terminator. It looked like Bobby had picked up everything but a change of clothing.

Mac helped him into a flannel, then worked a pair of jeans over his hips without too much motion. His boots had been kicked in the corner where he'd slipped them off earlier that morning. Mac bent down to pick them up, untying them and widening the tongue so that Dean could slip his foot inside. Mac guided Dean's hand to the doorframe, while he helped him put on and tie his damn shoes. Looking down, he forgot the 'don't move your head' rule and triggered an episode. He yelped, grabbing tightly to the doorframe with one hand while reaching out with the other. The hand was grasped, as was his hip.

"You're alight, just look up and take a few deep breaths. I've got you; you're not going to fall. Try not to move until the dizziness stops." Mac was still on the floor, now holding on to him.

Bobby stood watching, hands clenched in frustration and impotence. He hated seeing someone he loved in ill or in pain – knowing there was nothing he could do. "Mac, you sure he's up for a drive? I don't see this going well."

Mac stood, moving his hands to the kid's shoulders instead. "I'm not promising a pleasant experience. We can try – if Dean starts to feel worse, we'll stop by the nearest ER."

Dean jerked away at that. "No way, Mac. I'm not going to the hospital."

Taking in a deep breath, Mac negotiated. "Let's see how the trip to the pharmacy goes and we'll decide the next steps after that. I would feel better if your vehicles had head-rests and bucket seats, but your classics are limited to a bench."

Both men scoffed at his critique. Mac heard Dean mutter 'better not complain about Baby' under his breath. Mac snarked back, "They aren't very safe – if either of you is in a car accident, whiplash is the best case – "

The man got cut off by colorful commentary that made him smile inadvertently. Rolling his eyes, he gently guided Dean outside and towards the black '67 Chevy Impala parked across from the ground-floor room with Bobby following behind. Bobby's distressed blue '68 Ford F-350 was diagonally parked beside it.

Bobby took the keys and opened the passenger door, while Mac helped Dean inside holding his head so that the movement was minimal as possible. Mac leaned over to buckle the seatbelt, then stepped back to allow Dean to breathe.

Mac placed a plastic bag in Dean's hand, making sure to put the rest in the pocket beside him for easy reach. The small movement had clearly made the young man dizzy.

Singer passed the car keys to the doctor, sharing a pointed look before heading to his truck to start it up. Once Mac judged the dizzy spell to have subsided, he carefully closed the passenger side door before jumping in the driver's seat.

"Ready, Dean?" Mac asked before starting up Dean's 'Baby'. Classic rock blasted through the car's stereo making both of them wince. Dean cupped his forehead, pained. He reached out and turned off the music.

Dean closed his eyes, wetness prickling unseen. The ringing in his ears intensified and the engine's vibration made his stomach turn. He held his breath to keep from appearing affected, anticipating the car's forward movement prior to the gas being pressed.

It was anticlimactic when the car turned off, and Mac slid over to face him. "Breathe, Dean." Mac's fingers pressed against his wrist, taking his pulse while he forced himself to breathe as directed. "If you're not up for this, I need you to tell me. It's just the two of us, son."

Swallowing hard, Dean pried his eyes open to meet the concerned gaze of his best friend's father. He often envied Caleb having Mac. Caleb often complained about his father's 'mama bear tendencies' but Dean knew his friend secretly enjoyed being cared for that fiercely after a traumatic childhood, especially when he wasn't well. Dean hadn't had that since his mother's death. If anything, he'd become the parent – while his father's obsession pulled him further away from their small family. After Sammy left, Dean wasn't sure what the future had in store for him other than hunting and the Brotherhood.

The thought of not being able to hunt because of freaking crystals in his ears messing with his coordination and equilibrium panicked him. Hunting was the only thing that he had left – he had to push through it, Dad's right 'I have to man up' he told himself. With that thought in mind, he sat up straight and pulled his hand away from the kind doctor. "I'm fine, Mac. I can do this; you don't have to coddle me. Let's go."

It was quiet for a minute only thing heard was Dean's heaving breaths; Dean could tell that the older man was examining him visually – so he focused on putting on a poker face. Mac wouldn't find a hint of weakness in him.

It seemed that was the wrong move. The engine roared and Mac spoke solidly, "we're going to the hospital."

"No!" Dean pleaded, turning in his seat to face the doctor. "Please, Mac. I don't need to go to the hospital." He grasped the end of his jacket as the car was put into drive. "Please."

"Dean," Mac said gravely, "I don't feel like I can trust your medical reports. We've been through this before; it led me to misdiagnose sepsis and landed Caleb flat on his back for months. My son almost died. Now – you're telling me that you're 'fine' when we both know perfectly well that you are not. Your heart rate is currently 120 bpm, your breathing is fast and you're sweating. I can tell that you're still dizzy and nauseous. This might be a common ailment, or it might be a head injury or even caused by a tumor. If we don't have trust between us and you're not straight with me – then I have no choice but to take you to the hospital. The doctors there can run an MRI and a CAT scan to make sure that I haven't missed anything critical."

Dean's pallor whitened even further at the speech and he lost his resolve; throwing up again in the plastic bag he clutched. Mac pulled the car into the closest parking lot, Bobby pulling up behind them in his rickety truck.

Gasping, Dean struggled to explain himself as he heaved. "I – Mac, I trust you. I – don't want you to think I'm weak. I can't let this stop me hunting, Mac. I don't – have anything else. Please, please Mac. I just – panicked."

Bobby got out of the car and walked over to the passenger side door where Dean was still throwing up bile. He opened the car door to see if he could help.

Mac rubbed his brow, frustrated by the stoic militarist response. He imagined Dean having anxiety attacks and John Winchester berating him to 'suck it up' as was his modus operandi. The boy was caring, empathetic, and had a sensitive side, but was forced to hide his true nature to meet his father's expectations. Mac was convinced Dean's laissez-faire attitude was a survival instinct, like his peacekeeping tendencies – trying to hold his family together by meeting their needs while ignoring his own.

Both men waited for the vomiting to end. Mac leaned back to search through the cooler in the back floorboard for a bottle of water. It took longer than he wanted, digging through the bottles of beer, Jack Daniels, and hard lemonade. Compared to the alcohol, there were only 2 bottles of water in the large cooler, worrying the doctor even more. John was a functioning alcoholic, and it seemed that Dean was on the path towards it himself.

He handed the cold drink to Dean, waiting while he took a sip and spit it out onto the concrete away from Bobby. Dean wiped his mouth, then sat back against the seat trying to even his breath.

"You alright, boy?" Bobby gruffly asked.

"Yeah," Dean started, but then his eyes flew open and he turned slightly to the driver's side. "I'm just feeling nauseous and still a little dizzy. But, it's going away now. I don't need to go to the hospital – I'll be alright. I promise, Mac."

Bobby frowned at that, looking at the doctor in confusion. "Mac? Is he alright?"

Mac placed his hand on Dean's shoulder, then slipped his fingers under the collar to take his pulse at the jugular. "Try and slow down your breathing." Once he'd deemed it safe, he pulled away. "I think Dean will need the medication before we continue our trip."

Bobby quickly volunteered to play goffer and pick it up for them. "I'll be back." The man practically fled back to his truck and away from the sickness.

Dean whispered, "Does that mean you trust me now? I'm sorry, Mac."

"I forgive you, son. For this to work, we both have to trust each other. To me, having your trust and being able to return it is more important than any hunt."

"Why? If I get hurt, it's on me."

Mac turned, a flash of understanding, "Dean, this isn't on you. This can happen to anyone – I've seen a large sneeze trigger it. Sometimes there's no root cause, it just happens. You did nothing to deserve this, so please stop blaming yourself for things that you cannot control. You need to relax your mind and body. I'm going to help you get back on your feet. I'll make sure you know what to do if this ever reoccurs. But, you're going to need to turn off that negative voice inside your head that's making you feel anxious – without alcohol."

"What? I can't drink?"

"Alcohol can make vertigo worse. It's recommended to stop drinking until the tinnitus and vertigo subside. Dean, how much alcohol do you drink in a week?"

The young man shrugged, "I don't know – I don't count, it's somewhere in the 30s, depending."

"Are you sleeping?"

"Yeah – like 4 or 5 hours a night."

"Are you still having nightmares?" Mac remembered Dean's screams in the middle of the night when he'd stayed to care for Caleb in his youth. He'd bring Dean into his office to talk, sharing a cup of tea – never getting to the heart of his fears. The young man would apologize over and over for waking him, falsely claiming that he didn't remember his dreams.

"Yeah – I just don't remember 'um." Dean responded quickly, wanting to shut the door on the conversation. "I – uh- stopped screaming though, so I won't wake you anymore."

Mac frowned, wanting to continue the conversation but knowing that it wasn't the time. "I wasn't worried about being woken, Dean. I'm worried about you. I'm worried that we'll need to taper off the alcohol or you'll suffer withdrawal."

"Mac, I'm not a freaking alcoholic!"

Looking out the window, the doctor spoke sarcastically, "I suppose the next thing you'll tell me is that you can stop drinking anytime."

"I can! I'm not a drunk." Dean argued back, angry. "I don't need this right now, Mac! I said I was sorry – if you're not going to let it go, then let me call Dad. I'll just stay in a motel until he gets back."

Lowering his voice and lengthening his words, Mac tried to deescalate the ill, angry young man. "Dean, right now, the only two options that I will allow are home care or admission into a hospital. For me to treat you at home, I need to know the variables within your medical history, which includes how frequently you drink and how often you sleep. I've never lied to you and now that you're considered an adult – I'm not going to sugarcoat the truth. I respect you too much for that. Dean, medically speaking, you are considered an alcoholic if you consume more than 4 drinks per day – if you're drinking in the 30s, then you've surpassed that borderline."

Scoffing, Dean argued back, unwilling to be pacified. "And what, Mac? Telling me this will get me to see the errors of my ways and I'll be a good little boy who'll want to be like you?" 'Like Sam' was unspoken but clearly understood.

Thinking intently, Mac spoke softly, "I think that we need to table this discussion to when you're feeling better." Dean was terrified, angry, and panicking. His mind wasn't in a place that could see care and concern for what they were, proof of love.

Mac allowed Dean to rage on for a while, listening, but not responding until Bobby's truck pulled up next to the Impala.

Upon seeing Bobby come up to his door, Dean suddenly stopped venting. He opened the door for the older man, reaching out a hand to the paper bag that housed the medications needed to get through the next five hours without puking.

The doctor gave instructions for each bottle and helped Dean stick the motion sickness prevention patch behind his ear. Motioning his pointer finger to indicated they needed to wait a minute, Mac got out of the car and walked towards the small convenience store across the way. He bought a gallon of water, then put it in the cooler – moving the beer into a plastic bag instead. Bobby's mouth dropped open as two cases of beer were pulled out of the cooler.

He snarked at Dean, "you worried you're gonna run out or somethin'?"

The young man closed his eyes and didn't respond to the jab.

When he spoke, Mac fought to keep things lighthearted. "I think it's time to hit the road. We should be at my place by nightfall unless we hit traffic – which we most likely will. Dean, you've lucked out – the nausea medicine has a sedating effect, so you can probably just drift off to sleep while I drive."

Bobby laughed, "Yeah – Mac would like that, you won't back-seat drive while he's driving your Baby."

Dean took it the wrong way, closing his eyes and turning away from them both. "I'll go to sleep and won't bother either of you anymore." The tone was both insulted and hurt.

Bobby gaped at him, but Mac shook his head warningly. "Bobby – feel free to call my cell phone if you need to stop and I'll do the same. Hopefully, we can make it to NYC in one or two stops."

Nodding, Bobby got in his car and followed behind the Impala, knowing something was seriously wrong but willing to follow the doctor's lead for now.

-xxxxxxxxxx-

They got to Mac's place in mostly one piece nearly 9 hours later. Dean had thrown up a half dozen times during the drive. Mac had forced them to stop and eat; the stubborn doctor refused to drive unless his patient had eaten a bowl of soup and a smoothie. The food promptly came back up – but after a double dose of the anti-nausea medication, things had settled. Dean was able to complete the ride comfortably in a daze. The sedative the doctor slipped in intravenously certainly helped calm him as well.

Directing Bobby to the private parking lot, they parked in the guest spots, then made their way to the elevator that would take them to Mac's high-rise apartment. Mac had his arms wrapped around Dean's back and held him securely as the young man stumbled sleepily. Bobby walked beside them carrying their bags, ready to act if either started to fall.

It was like guiding a drunk who was stumbling and jerky. If it weren't for the collar around Dean's neck, he'd never know that the kid had spent the entire day vomiting the contents of his stomach and unable to walk straight.

Mac's doorman opened the door for them immediately, then kindly carried the bags inside while Bobby and Mac assisted Dean into what had been Caleb's room. Bobby helped stack up enough decorative pillows to have made his Karen a happy wife behind Dean's back. Why those pillows were in Caleb's room would be food for fodder the next time he saw the kid. It didn't take long for Dean to drift off to sleep, by the time Mac had setup another IV and taken his blood pressure, the kid was snoring.

"He alright?" Bobby asked the doctor.

"Yeah – we'll give him a few days and hopefully he'll be on the mend." Mac pressed the stethoscope against Dean's chest, listening for a few seconds before pulling away and leading them out of the bedroom door towards the living room. "I'll check on him in an hour or so."

Bobby sat on the leather sofa while Mac played host, offering him a cup of tea. Bobby rolled his eyes, "I'd have a beer if you're offering – don't like tea that much, Doc." Mac nodded, then went over to the refrigerator for a cold one to hand to his fellow Brother. Mac went over to the bar area and poured a finger of bourbon. They both sipped at their drinks, retrospective of the day that they'd had.

"Are you alright, Bobby?" Mac knew that John's behavior had triggered something deeply buried in his friend.

As usual, Bobby refused the concern, "Oh come on princess – you think I'm traumatized by a bit of puke?" He rolled his eyes. "Do you want to talk about it? Or perhaps you want a hug and sing kumbaya?"

Mac smiled, allowing the commentary to wash over him. "I was mostly worried about your interaction with John."

"John's an ass." It was said with a large pull of the beer.

Nodding, Mac couldn't disagree with the assessment. "You witnessed him laying hands on Dean?"

"No, he didn't 'lay hands' on the kid – he attacked him, threw him against the wall, shook him, and pushed him hard enough that if I weren't there, Dean's skull would have a crack in it." Bobby corrected mockingly. "I told you John was getting physical with the kid! I practically begged you to do something about it. But, your 'hands were tied' or some bullshit. Well, mine ain't, and like hell, I'm gonna let the fucker touch that kid."

Mac felt ashamed. "Thank you, Bobby. For protecting Dean. I'm sorry – you'll never know how sorry that I am that I couldn't put a stop to it. I'll talk to John; perhaps I can talk him into taking a few hunts away from Dean for a while."

"Huh, talk to him? That's your solution? Talkin'? 'Cause, that's going really well all these years." Bobby yelled.

Holding out a hand and motioning calm, Mac lowered his voice, "Let's try and not wake Dean. I would love it if I can get him to sleep 8 hours minimum tonight."

"Should be fairly easy since you drugged him, Doc! And don't act innocent, it was obvious you dosed him that last stop." Bobby continued the criticism, albeit in a slightly lower volume.

The doctor took in a breath, letting it out slowly before answering. "I didn't claim to be innocent nor was I attempting to conceal the medications that I had given to Dean. He knew that I had been giving him Valium from the first treatment. All I did was give him a higher dose at a time where he could use the additional assistance. I wouldn't do anything to hurt him."

"Hell, Mac. I know that – you love that kid as if he were your own. So, what the hell is up with the both of you? The kid looked like he was beaten down and you were playing Suzy Sunshine – all fake like and making things worse."

Mac interrupted, his voice higher and sharp, "Suzy Sunshine?"

"Don't you look at me like that – you heard me! When you start actin' like that I know shit hit the fan. So, spill Ames!" Bobby ordered.

Mac sat back, finishing up the last of his drink, then stared at it hauntingly. "I'm worried about Dean. I'm very worried. I'm starting to see signs of his PTSD reemerging: alcoholism, anxiety/depression, aggression, night terrors and subsequent lack of sleep, hypervigilance, lack of healthy relationships, and him obsessively protecting John."

Bobby shook his head, "you just noticed that? It's been over nearly two freakin' years of that Mackland."

Eyes widening, Mac thought back to the last few years. "It started to get bad during Sam's junior year of high school – Sam started secretly applying to colleges. John felt him pulling away, disengaging."

"Yeah – and Dean's stuck in the middle."

"I asked Caleb to look after him." The haunted gaze met the older hunter, seeking some reassurance. It was denied.

Bobby smirked, "Caleb might be responsible, but you stick him with Dean and they act like they're both still in high school."

"Caleb encourages excess alcohol consumption and promiscuity." Mac bit his lip – knowing this. It was one of the ways Caleb and Dean bonded, though Mac's influence kept it from becoming a problem. From the time the adoption papers had been finalized, he'd taught Caleb to speak up when he was upset. His door was open, and his son could come to him anytime he needed an ear. For Caleb, the girls and the drinking were not relied on as a crutch during tough times, but as a celebration during good times.

Dean didn't have that – he'd been trained to keep silent from the time he was four years old. John kept his children from speaking the truth, telling them that they'd be taken away, separated, and put into foster care. The threat worked on his son as well, Caleb became terrified that his best friends would suffer the way that he did and kept silent on their behalf. Mac was enraged when he caught John speaking to his son that way – it was one of the first fights he'd had with the Knight. It wasn't John's place to use his son's history to frame his narrative or manipulate his son into toeing the line.

Even during the times that he could watch over the boys, the 'family secrets' stayed tightly shrouded with neither boy free to speak honestly about their experiences at home. It seemed the only person whom Dean would speak to was Caleb. Mac had hoped that by encouraging his son to check in on Dean, that they would talk; instead, Dean bottled everything inside as he had done as a child. It had taken nearly a year to work through the trauma of losing his mother – a small boy clinging like a limpet to his baby brother silent and terrified. Instead, John shaped the child into a soldier designed to protect the baby.

Now, nearly twenty years later – the baby had grown up and started a life on his own; leaving behind the brother who'd practically raised him in an emotional free-fall. There was no one to blame but John for this. Years of lectures, begging and pleading to change his ways for the good of his family – none of them important enough to stop the hunt for Mary Winchester's killer.

John knew – he knew the future that Jim Murphy was carving for the young man. They all needed Dean to be of sound mind. They needed him to be healthy, secure, and steady. The role of the Guardian could not be taken lightly, yet still, he did nothing to help his son but push him further to the brink. Jim did what he could from New Haven, but Dean was far from his influence. Dean's role in the Brotherhood would be tomorrow's problem; right now, they had a sick young man to get back on his feet.

"I'm not sure if we're going to find a solution tonight, Bobby. You're right in that this has been years in the making. Right now, we need to get him back on his feet and stabilized. I'll check on the IV and see if I can get him to drink some juice."

"You said it'd take a week? He gonna be that sick all week?" Bobby queried.

"It shouldn't– it was bad because he was in a moving vehicle for hours. The medications will help prevent the vomiting and if we can get him relaxed, the vertigo should settle."

"Relax, huh?" Bobby laughed. "Good luck with that, Mac. You're better off drugging the kid."

Mac gave his friend a pointed look, "Don't joke about that, please. Between the both of us, we'll manage it."

"Sure, we will." Bobby warily replied.

-xxxxxxxxxxxx-

Dean woke up the next morning groggily, his back was hurting from the uncomfortable position he had slept in. Mac had come in and had arranged a few pillows on his sides to keep him from rolling over in his sleep. He typically tossed and turned all night to find a comfortable position; needing to keep one position made him sore. Lifting his hand, he could see the bandage that Mac had applied after pulling out the IV in the night. He remembered that Mac had helped him drink a glass of orange juice before telling him good night.

The dumb neck brace felt like it was choking him, and he pulled it down from his chin where the Velcro left a mark. Opening his eyes, he felt his stomach twist and his head spin. He wasn't even moving! The adrenaline flooded his system, afraid now that the dizziness wouldn't go away. Clenching his teeth, Dean forced himself to 'man up' and stop being a whiny baby about a little dizziness.

He sat up slowly, hands coming to his head as the world spun. Then he dropped his legs to the floor so he could stand. His vision darkened, and he felt like falling – grasping hold of the wall near him. He stood there for a minute until the spinning stopped, then used the wall to guide himself to the kitchen.

He grabbed a glass from the cabinet, then filled it with water from the sink. Drinking a bit, he felt proud that he was able to complete the task on his own. A few seconds later, shame made his cheeks redden. He was proud of walking to the kitchen and getting a freakin' drink of water. He put the glass in the sink, reaching for a sponge to wash it, but quickly realized staring down (even down a sink) was a bad idea. Going on touch alone, he rinsed the glass and put it on the drying rack.

"Good morning, Dean." Mac's soothing voice came from across the room. Dean could have made a bet on his next question and won a million dollars. "How are you feeling?"

The doctor came up behind him and reached for a mug. The automatic, 'I'm fine' nearly slipped out, but he caught himself before the man could threaten another trip to the hospital. "I'm – still dizzy and nauseous."

"Is it better than yesterday?" Mac prompted.

"I donno – I think I'm starting to figure out that certain things make it worse – so I stop doing 'em."

"It makes sense. How's the hearing? Still hearing the buzzing?"

"Yeah." Dean ground out, frustrated. Mac patted him on the shoulder, holding out a cup.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?"

The scent of freshly brewed coffee wasn't making him feel like puking, so he answered, "yes, please."

Mac handed him the mug, then gently guided him to the couch to sit. Once he was off his feet, Dean closed his eyes at the motion. Once the worst of the spell had faded, he took a sip of the hot coffee. It was perfect – Mac had the best coffee outside of a gourmet coffee house that he'd visited with Sammy once near the biggest ball of twine. If there was one thing that he knew – it was where the best dinners, hole-in-the-walls, and coffee shops were across the good o' USA. His brother always teased him; encouraging him to write a 'foodie blog' online. That was, of course, when they were still speaking to each other.

He desperately needed a distraction. "Mac, can we watch a movie or something?" He squirmed on the couch trying to get comfortable, and instead managed to work himself up.

"Could I recommend one that I think you would like?" Mac went over to the cabinet to pull out a DVD. He slipped it into the player, then handed Dean the brightly green colored case featuring a green monster and a smiling donkey.

"It's a kids movie, Mac… a cartoon." Dean complained.

Mac smiled warmly, "I promise that if you give it a chance, it will surprise you. It's not a typical children's movie. It's very funny." He pressed play on the device, then handed the remote control to his guest. "I'll see about making us some breakfast. Is there anything in particular that you would like?"

Resting his head back against the cushions to keep the collar from irritating his chin, Dean mentioned, "You don't have to cook – I'd be happy with a piece of toast."

"Speak for yourself!" Bobby grumbled from the guest bedroom, pajamas wrinkled, scratching at his belly. "I'd like some bacon and eggs if you're takin' orders."

Thankfully, Mac was a morning person and rolled his eyes at the morning demand. "Good morning Bobby, would you like some coffee?" Mac held out the pot of coffee.

"Do chickens lay eggs?" Bobby came over and held out a clean mug for his share. He took several sips, blinking himself awake. "This is damn good coffee, Mac. Thank you."

He padded over to the living room and plopped himself on the chair across from Dean, frowning at the television. "Is that a talking donkey?" He shook his head and didn't wait for an answer. "How are you, Dean? Feel any better today?"

"Hey, Bobby." Dean blinked, "My head's still spinning a bit, but at least I'm not throwing up."

Bobby took another sip of the coffee, "well, you look a little better today. Color is still off." He turned towards the tv and nearly spit out his coffee in surprise at a gingerbread man being tortured by a midget wearing a crown.

Dean's laughter filled the room, joyful, and unrestrained. Bobby and Mac joined him, sharing a look. Bobby couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Dean laugh and from Mac's expression, it had been a long time for him as well.

"Did they just make a dick joke?"

Mac answered Dean from the open kitchen, "Yes, they did. They make quite a few of them related to Lord Farquaad's stature. This movie is creative in its use of language. A child who would laugh at the characters, while adults find enjoyment in the nostalgia, as well as the veiled commentary, that a child would not usually understand. Bobby – the movie is called Shrek."

The doctor pulled out some eggs, toast, bacon, and pancake mix. Dean would most likely gravitate towards the toast and pancakes for a blander selection but still offered a choice if his nausea abated. It didn't take very long to grill the pancakes into three short stacks, then scramble the eggs and fry the bacon. While the bacon cooked, the toast was browned and by the time Fiona's secret was revealed, breakfast was served.

Dean paused the video, not wanting to miss a laugh then threw the remote on the cushions beside him. There was a moment where he forgot that he wasn't supposed to move very quickly – and in the next, his knees hit the floor and he clutched the arm of the couch to keep his head from colliding with the ground. Mac was kneeling in front of him, while Bobby was at his side. Both were talking but the buzzing in his ears made what they were saying sound like electrical feedback.

Mac shifted his position so that his head was straight, and his neck was neutral instead of tucked against his chest. Dean wasn't sure how it took for the world to stop spinning, but the next time he opened his eyes everything was blurry. "Fuck" the expletive flew from his lips as his stomach cramped. He pulled away from Mac's hands to find a bowl or vase or freaking something that wouldn't cost more money than he'd ever seen to vomit in.

He cupped his mouth as he started gagging. Bobby handed him a bowl that had previously held apples on the coffee table before shifting back so that he wasn't in the splash zone. He threw up coffee and not much else. He sat on his heels, unwilling to risk moving and making it worse. Bobby took the bowl from his hands to empty it. He must have lost a little bit of time because Mac had loosened his neck collar and placed a cold compress against his skin.

"Bobby and I are going to get you off the floor." Mac wrapped an arm around his back and the other under his knees with Bobby doing the same on the other side. "We'll be as smooth as possible."

To their credit, the two men were able to get Dean back on the couch without jerking his head or triggering another spell. Mac went back into the kitchen, then returned with a glass of water. Dean took the glass but didn't attempt to drink. "Mac, isn't there anything else you can try? Please."

The doctor's expression became what Bobby liked to think of as 'robotic'. He knew the man was going to give Dean bad news. "I'll give you a bit more anti-nausea medication, but it hasn't even been 24 hours since the repositioning. It can take up to seven days to resolve. You seem to have significantly improved since yesterday."

Dean bit back the swear, "Mac, this isn't improved! I can't move or even see straight anymore."

"Can you describe what you're seeing?"

Dean wanted to shake his head but thought better of it. He pulled off the cold compress instead. "It's blurry but sometimes it goes dark. Like I'm in a tunnel. I feel like I'm going to pass out. The damn buzzing isn't helping either."

"What you're describing fits the symptoms of vertigo. Why don't I explain my observations? Because from a medical perspective, I'm encouraged by your progress. Yesterday, you couldn't walk on your own. Within an hour of getting out of bed, you had vomited at least four times and lost control of your bladder. You couldn't open your eyes nor keep anything in your stomach. This morning, you were able to get out of bed, walk into the kitchen, clean a glass, drink a cup of coffee, and watch television – all while you were reporting that you felt dizzy. Your skin was pale but starting to pink-up. You weren't sensitive to the odors even though you were nauseous, didn't have any noticeable issues with your vision until you stood too quickly. Prior to that, you seemed like you were feeling better."

Dean looked like he was going to start arguing, so Bobby jumped in. "Kid, Mac's right and you've just got to trust what he's telling you. You're not the first person to have this, nor the last. He's right in that it's common. Hell, when I was a nipper, another kid in my class used to get it bad. He'd have to lay on the floor until the room stopped spinning. Back then, they used to tell you to man-up and kicked you when you were on the ground. Nowadays, you got medicine and treatments for it. Heck, you've got a freaking brain surgeon treating you – so stop whining."

Mac glared at the gruff junk-yarder. He had not wanted Dean to feel guilty for 'whining'. His goal was to encourage a dialogue about his symptoms and open communication. Now, Bobby was ridiculing him – inadvertently conveying that Dean was required to keep silent about his needs once again. Laying a hand on Dean's wrist, Mac immediately took control of the narrative. "Bobby means well, and I appreciate his sentiment, but in order to help get you back on your feet, I need to know how you feel. I don't consider it complaining nor whining to explain your symptoms. And I'm honored to be able to help you – brain surgeon or not. I love you as if you were my son."

Dean looked dazed, overwhelmed – as typical, shutting down when faced with emotional situations. Mac pulled away to give him some air and motioned Bobby to the kitchen table. "Why don't I help you to the table? The food is getting cold."

At first, Dean seemed afraid – not wanting to move, but agreed. He slowly stood up, accepting Bobby's offered arm as a crutch.

Bobby swallowed, then decided to speak what had been in his heart, "For the record, Dean, I consider you and your brother my family. Family don't end in blood, you know. I know that you're upset that Sam left, but I'm still here and so is Mac and so is Caleb. You're not alone. You got us."

Mac's eyes were wet and he opened his mouth as if he were going to say something sappy, so Bobby pointed at him and told it to him straight, "Uh uhh – you're gonna keep this private like or I'll call your pappy!"

Gaping, Mac was nearly rendered speechless. "Did you honestly threaten to call my father as if we were in grade school?"

"I ain't threatening – It's a promise. I got Cullen's number programmed in my phone. You start another lecture and I dial the number." Bobby was helping Dean into the kitchen at a snail's pace.

Once the kid was safely sitting, Bobby pulled out his cell phone and showed the doctor his father's number pre-filled on the screen. "I'm not entirely certain why my father's contact information is in your phone, but I doubt he'd entertain you for long."

Puffing out his chest, Bobby was insulted, "what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I doubt you and my father have much in common."

Bobby sat down angrily, snatching some bacon before munching on it, manners be damned. "I'll have you know Cullen and I have lots in common, Mr. Smarty-Pants. We speak every weekend."

Mac sat down across from his guest, then used a tong to serve breakfast, ignoring the faux pas. When he caught the last comment, he froze. "I beg your pardon, could you repeat that? Did you actually say that you speak to my father every weekend?"

Bobby smirked at the good doctor, then egged him on. "You heard me. Cullen and I are becoming good friends. The stories he shares are so – interesting. You can really tell that you and Caleb are the apples of his eye."

Ames got red in the face. "What has he -?"

Bobby cut him off, "you know – you've got to be a bit more trusting, Dr. Ames. After all, you've not done anything embarrassing in your entire life… so, what do you got to be afraid of me finding out?"

The last was said with a wide smile, as he open-mouth chewed on his bacon.

Dean started laughing at Mackland's expression, forgetting about his misery for the moment. Bobby gave Mac a wink, indicating that he was teasing for Dean's benefit and to lighten the mood. Mac nodded when Dean reached for a piece of toast, silently communicating with his friend that he did well.

-xxxxxxxxxxxx-

As much as Dean wished for a miracle that the dizziness would magically stop, it was a gradual process. After the three days, Mac allowed him to remove the neck collar but still wouldn't allow him to lie flat or move too quickly. Every day, it got slightly better until he felt like he could navigate the room without holding on to the walls. The nausea was lessened by the medications that he was taking, and he could eat a meal without vomiting. Vertigo was still triggered when he bent down and being in small rooms with white walls was a struggle. The bathroom was the worst – leaning to pick up his pants from his ankles made him feel like he was going to pass out. He'd gotten to the point where he was ready to wear a nightgown or a kilt instead.

He'd spoken to Caleb and his father. His best friend was supportive, offering to drop what he was doing to come for a visit. Caleb spoke to him, as well as his father, every night to check in on them. His father on the other hand told him that he was heading to Windom, Minnesota to check in on an old friend. Dean wanted his father to offer a visit, but instead, the Knight ordered him to research techniques to overcome vertigo. When he had mentioned that Dr. Ames offered to train him after the initial symptoms had subsided, his father acted as if he was purposefully slowing his recovery – enjoying being 'babied'. John got angry when Dean had tried to explain that he couldn't make certain movements without nearly blacking out and that he needed the help both men offered, his father hung up.

It was as if that one phone call caused him to relapse. His head started spinning again and he lost his lunch. Mac got worried; said that he needed to relax. After he'd spent the rest of the day with an IV in his arm, the doctor recommended repeating the repositioning, which meant another three days of a neck collar and seven days of sleeping sitting up. The news caused him to have a panic attack, frightening not only himself – but his friends.

He couldn't help the tears as he begged Bobby for forgiveness. "You can head home Bobby. You don't have to stay – I'll get better soon. Don't worry about me." He said something similar to Mac – telling him that he could go to work and leave him to take care of himself.

Bobby got worked up, shouting in his emotional state, "What kind of person do you think I am, boy? You think I'm the kind of man who'd walk out on you? Leave when you need help?" He pulled on Dean's shirt, pulling him close.

Mac eased himself between the two men, wrapping his arms around them both in a slight group hug. "Dean, we're not leaving." Mac ran a hand soothingly over Dean's hair, "I spoke to John. I'm sorry that he couldn't provide you with the support you needed. But, you're not alone. We're here."

After the emotional upheaval, the fight had left him feeling raw and exposed. But there was also a sense of submission and supplication in the fact that his Brothers had his back when his own family had abandoned him. Unlike Sammy or John, he knew that with one phone call, Caleb would hop the next flight to be with him if even mentioned that he wished he were there. There was no more doubt in his mind that Bobby Singer and Mackland Ames would do anything for him, even protect him from his father.

While spending another week stumbling around, medicated, and wearing a collar didn't appeal to anyone – he was relieved that he didn't have to try to work through the dizziness on his own. There would be someone there to help him stand back up both literally and figuratively. They'd seen him at his absolute worst and not left him.

He supposed that was what Bobby meant by saying that 'Family don't end in blood.'

-xxxxxxxxxxxx-

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this regarding my own experience with BPPV - It had taken me 3 rounds of weekly repositioning to get myself back on my feet, but I feel if I had a doctor like Mac, I probably would've kicked it with a week and a half. My parents came down to help me because I literally couldn't do anything without throwing up. (I landed in the hospital twice – both times they admitted me and pumped me full of anti-emetics until I could get to a specialist. The balance specialist was the only one who could assist.)


End file.
